Assaulted in my ‘Safe Space’ City

 

Assaulted in my ‘Safe Space’ City  

In memory of Ava White, 2009-2021 

Published by Manchester Evening News, Liverpool Echo and No Parties Magazine

By Delphie Levy Jones 

 

I moved to Liverpool for university in 2019 and very quickly grew to love the city. It was, and still is, a home away from home. The atmosphere had always felt warm, the people were inviting, the city was small. It was my safe space. My escape from the claustrophobia of high school and home bound lockdowns, with my third year returning that sense of freedom covid stripped from us all. I think however, as a woman, the peaceful simplicity of this safety was a naive, and hopeful thought. 

 

The 25th of November 2021, International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women, marked the second time I was assaulted in my city. 

 

On both occasions, I, and my friends, were attacked by grown men. And now I should preface, I am small. At 5ft3, I’m not what you’d assume grown men would or should find threatening. 

 

My first assault occurred at a peak in covid cases, with Liverpool’s nightlife open, but limited to seated venues and the politically screwed up curfew rule. A flock of a thousand drunks would flee to the streets at 10pm, and those in charge should have known this space would not be safe, it would not be calm. It was a chaotic frenzy full of intoxicated animals hungry for a fight. 

 

Myself and two others waited for our taxi to take us home, on a well-lit, busy street. If you’re a Liverpool local, then Nabzy’s will be a familiar post-club hotspot for you, and as much as the next person loves their spicy wings meal, outside the shop’s where it all went down and still puts me on edge walking past to this day. We were approached by three men, I’d guess around their mid-thirties and shamefully, probably all fathers. Immediately they tried to be flirtatious, putting their arms around us, to which we replied a handy covid excuse that we didn’t want to be in close contact with anyone. Whilst this was to some extent true, of course the real reason was because instantly, we knew we didn’t want their vile old hands touching us full stop. 

 

After their poor pride was hurt from our rejection, things turned nasty. Gravel and bark was thrown in our faces, scratching my eye and taking my earring out, and whilst my back was turned (surely indicating a retreat?), I was kicked down. I was winded and for a while my lungs felt crushed and suffocated. It was a losing battle. It was then, when we were beyond fighting back, that the covid taunts began. They forced their clammy hands into our faces, slurring ‘covid, covid’, directing aggressive fake coughs into our faces. It wasn’t until one week later, I began to develop ‘flu-like symptoms’, and it wasn’t until two weeks later, that I tested positive for coronavirus. 

 

It is a great comfort, to this day, that I managed to kick one of the bastards in the balls. And whilst I do not encourage this behaviour, because yes, it was probably not the most sensible response in regards to my safety, it felt really, really, really good. 

 

That night, we managed to track down local merseyside police who predictably, but disgracefully, seemed to only make things worse. Despite our hysteria, our shock, our all-encompassing terror and our desperate pleas for the chicken shop to help us (all caught on their CCTV as they locked the door in our faces), according to the police it was his word against mine. Even though I had acted in self defence, even though he was twice my height and strength, if he was to be arrested that night, so was I. 

 

My second assault was only yesterday. I watched as my best friend got punched in the head and knocked to the ground in a night club, after asking a man not to shove her as we tried to get past. The punch, and her fall, is an image I’m sure will replay over and over in my mind for eternity. It’s haunting, and it makes you feel weak and helpless. His vicious and gruesome attack was unprovoked. He wanted to punch someone, and you could just tell, that night he had wanted to punch a woman. My instinct, (clearly not learning from the kick-in-the-balls incident) was to shove this vile excuse for a man, and shout at him, as my best friend lay in shock clutching at her head. It was then, that I was punched. And from then, it’s a blur. 

 

All that’s left is a lingering headache in my temple, my best friend’s bruises, and an uncomfortable memory that the bouncers had politely escorted him out, rather than forcefully removing him after what they had witnessed on CCTV. And, after my useless and patronising past experience with the police, I had absolutely no desire to once again, get them involved and attempt to seek justice. 

 

What I find to be most horrifying, is the irony. The irony of this assault being on a day intended to raise awareness and eradicate brutality towards women. This day, in Liverpool, a 30 year old woman passed away after being found in the river. This day, in Liverpool, three men were arrested under suspicion of murdering a 47 year old woman. This day, in Liverpool, a twelve year old girl was brutally stabbed and murdered. Twelve. Years. Old. 

 

This day, in Liverpool, the 25th November 2021, should be remembered as a brutal, and catastrophic day for women. 

 

My last intent of writing this article was to make us scared. We should not be afraid. It is just so important to be aware. It is not just spikings, and injections, but physical, violent attacks. These men exist, and they have no shame. We do not deserve to be made afraid in a city where we once felt safe. For anyone, any woman, who has been affected, it is not our fault. 

 

These men are disgusting and evil. But they do not make me afraid. Because most importantly, these men are not men, but cowards. 

 

The UN states, 

 

1 in 3 women and girls experience physical or sexual violence in their lifetime. 

 

Fewer than 40% of the women who experience violence seek help of any sort.

 

National helplines | lwa.org.uk : LWA

 

DECEMBER 20, 2022

A LETTER TO MYSELF, ONE YEAR LATER

A year has gone by and some justice has been served. Ava White’s murderer was found guilty, sentenced to life with a minimum of 13 years and the circumstances behind the woman whose body was found in the Mersey have been declared unsuspicious. Unfortunately, there are no updates on the three men arrested for the murder of the 47-year-old woman. Unfortunately, in September of this year, a 22-year-old-woman was found dead in the Adelphi Hotel. The investigation is ongoing and three men have been arrested on suspicion of murder. This incident really hit home. I am the same age, and last year, the view from my bedroom window was that hotel.

One year later, I wish I was writing to myself with some optimistic sentiment. Don’t worry Delphie, the men who assaulted you the first time felt so guilty about punching girls the age of their daughters, they turned themselves in. Don’t worry Delphie, the man who assaulted you the second time, who the bouncers didn’t mess with because he was a ‘big dealer from Toxteth’, got busted by the police. Or perhaps, don’t worry Delphie, you had a change of heart and believed the police would listen to you this time. They didn’t silence you by saying, ‘it’s your word against his’.

These things didn’t happen.

As I write, women are subject to violence. As I write, I fear to think about the strangers, sisters, daughters, girlfriends and wives who are at the brunt of male rage. England were recently knocked out of the Qatar World Cup and I suggest you watch the incredibly powerful Women’s Aid ad campaign fighting domestic abuse if you haven’t already. Moments like this remind me that there is no one form of violence, that it is so deep rooted within our society, and sadly, that makes me cynical when looking for a ‘solution’.

I do think that a key takeaway for a survivor wanting to share their story, or an activist aiming to raise awareness, is to address men.  We are teaching women to either cower or protect themselves from male violence, but why aren’t we teaching men to stop being violent in the first place?

And so now I address my younger self.

Don’t worry Delphie, ‘boys will be boys’ doesn’t justify that little boy in nursery who expressed his anger through punches and kicks. Don’t worry Delphie, that little boy hitting you ‘because he likes you’, isn’t justifiable, and only validates early signs of male aggression.

For women, the female experience of normalising victimisation often begins this young. So it is for men, that I now address this letter.

For

The fathers, the sons,

the police, the pastors, the painters

the builders who whistle on the sidewalks, the teachers who tell you your skirt is too short, the teachers who look at your skirt to begin with, the bouncers, the bartenders who tell you to cover your drink, the lads in nightclubs with rohypnol in their pockets, the lads in gangs who think its powerful when they hit a woman, the little boys who think they’re cool, the little boys whose mothers are at home making their teas, the little boy you walk past on the street, the little boy with a knife in his jeans, the security guard outside maccies who calls you a drunk slut, the housemate who defends you and says ‘oi, she’s not a slut’, the housemate who instead of going to his bed came to yours, the housemate who was too drunk to remember you saying no, the housemate who in the morning acted as if it didn’t happen, the students, the minors, the men twice your age, the fiancés, the husbands, the husbands whose football team lost on the telly, the kids who mimic their father’s rage because that black player missed the penalty, it’s his race’s fault, it’s your fault, it’s your fault his tea is too fucking cold, the postmen who believe it was the cupboard you walked into, the nurses who believe that fall in the kitchen is what bruised your wrists like that, the nurses who tell you to ice your bruised wrists and they’ll be healed in a week, the doctors, the doctors who tell you you’re going to have a baby, the doctors who tell you your baby is healthy even though your black eye wasn’t there at the last scan, the doctors who don’t ever seem to realise your baby will be beat just like you, the crowds of men outside the clinic shouting, the crowds of men who call your abortion a murder, the men in the crowd you recognise as the ones who shouted after you a few weeks ago, the men who shouted  ‘sexy bitch’ as you walked past them in the street, the Friday night drinkers, the drunks, the drugged-up dancers who grab and grind and grope, the drunk partners whose rage they hide in front of your children, the drunk partners who you stay with because of your children, the drunk partners who beg for your forgiveness when they’re sober, the boyfriends, the boyfriends who don’t like your friends, the boyfriends who think your dress is too low-cut, the boyfriends who you see every Saturday, the boyfriends who tantrum when it’s your brother’s birthday this Saturday, the boyfriends who sit silently at your family dinner, the boyfriends who say ‘sorry, I was just tired’, the boyfriends who won’t apologise because they did nothing wrong, the boyfriends who apologise profusely, crying, pleading, after they’ve smashed your face in with their fists, the carpet cleaners who don’t question the blood stains on the floor, the news anchors you watch on the tv reporting a woman in Saudi Arabia was stoned to death because she fled her marriage, the men who stone women for fleeing their marriages, the laws that allow women to be stoned for fleeing their marriages, the telly watchers who sit at home and think, ‘thank fuck it’s not like that here’, the men who have pictures of you on their phones, the one-night-stands who filmed you from behind, the one-night-stand you caught because his phone flash came on, the one-night-stands who promise they deleted the video, the one-night-stand who showed it to his mates but wouldn’t post it anywhere because don’t worry, he's not like that, the friends who stop speaking to you because they saw the video, the mechanics who say ‘you wouldn’t understand cars’, the mechanics who charge you less when your boyfriend’s there, the salesmen who scam thousands off your grandma, the waiters who address the man at the table first, the lawyers who say it’s your word against his, the call handlers who tell you to just lock your doors, to not walk home alone, to-

Please, please stop failing us.

 Every single incident above is a true story. Thank you to the brave women who shared their stories to help me write this piece.